Ballistic: Icarus Series, Book Two (11 page)

“Long story,” Ty dodged my gaze and lowered himself back down to the floor. “I had a fallin’ out with my dad. We agreed it might be best for me to head out on my own.”

“Seriously?” My brow furrowed. “You’re what, sixteen?”

“In a couple of months, yeah.” Ty sighed and raked his fingers through his hair.

“That sucks,” I said.

“Yeah,” Ty said. “Anyways, I don’t reckon any of that matters anymore.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“When we was in that holdin’ cell at the hospital, some of the people was talkin’,” Ty leaned in. “They had overheard some of the soldiers. Sounds like most of the big cities were gettin’ bombed on accounta the virus.”

“Jesus, are you serious?” I whispered looking around to make sure no one had overheard.

“Yeah,” Ty shook his head. “My family’s place is just outside of Memphis, Liv. What are the odds that it would survive a blast big enough to level a city that size?”

“That’s horrible,” I said reaching out to put my hand on his. “I’m so sorry, Ty.”

“See, there you go again,” he smirked, but there was little amusement there. “It sucks for sure, but ain’t none of it your fault any more than it’s mine, so you ain’t got nothin’ to apologize for. Sometimes bad stuff just happens, is all. All you can do is figure out how to deal.”

The silence stretched out between us, but neither of us felt the need to fill it. After a few minutes of quiet, Ty finally fell asleep. I clicked off the flashlight and let my eyes adjust to the darkness as I continued to stroke Bella’s fur. I wished I could shut off the thoughts racing through my mind and sleep like the rest of them. Not because I was tired but because I was sick of the constant noise in my head.

Constant worry over my brother’s safety was bouncing around in there along with the fear that something horrible may have happened to him. Guilt over what I had done to Gunther, as well as how things had gone down with Micah swirled together with the weight of the lies I had been telling by saying nothing. Zander was suffering, and the rest of them were in constant danger by simply being near me.

Eli was right about one thing. There was something different about me; about my blood.

I didn’t know what that
something
was, but I had a sneaking suspicion it was going to get everyone I loved killed.

Chapter 9

Camp Seco

(Lucas)

“I don’t like it here, Mommy.” Jazz crossed her arms and glared at her mother. “The sky is scary, and those men are mean to us. I want Daddy, and I want to go
home
.” She stomped to emphasize the last word.

“Jazz, honey, this is home,” Layla said flatly. “Everything will be fine.”

She didn’t even look at her daughter when she spoke. The lies tumbled from Layla’s mouth and into her lap as she sorted through the meager box of rations they had been given at processing.

The soldiers had taken everything from them when they arrived. By sheer force of will (as well as the volume of her tantrum), Jazz had managed to retain possession of Chewy. She clutched the ratty, stuffed toy tightly to her chest and buried her face in his fur.

For just a moment, Lucas missed his Courage. That manky old lion had gotten him through some pretty scary times. He shook away the memory as fast as it had snuck up on him. The old Lucas had been childish, and it was time to put away childish things.

“I have an idea, Jazz,” Lucas said forcing a smile across his face. “How about you, me, and Bo go exploring, huh? It’ll be fun.”

“Curfew is in less than thirty minutes. Don’t go far,” Layla said absently, all emotion gone from her voice.

“We won’t,” Lucas said grabbing Jazz’s hand.

“Where are we going, Skywalker,” the girl whispered conspiratorially.

“Anywhere but
here
.” Lucas looked over his shoulder at the mannequin that had replaced his foster mother.

He had been trying his best not to judge Layla for the way she was acting, but it was becoming more and more difficult as the hours stretched on. The light had left her eyes when the soldiers had told them what happened to Chicago. It was as if something had broken inside of her. Lucas wasn’t sure if it could be fixed.

“Come on, guys,” Bo muttered scowling at Layla. “Let’s blow this crap heap.”

“Language, Bo.” Layla cocked her head to the side, staring blankly at the plain white box in her hand labeled,
sanitary
.

It was as if she hadn’t heard herself speak. The rhetorical scolding had been more a reflex than anything else. Her body was here, but her heart and mind were buried somewhere in the smoldering ruins of Chicago. The Layla that remained was little more than a husk.

The three of them walked together down the long row of bunk beds, ducking and weaving their way through the chaos as they went. Finally, they emerged into the corridor. Soldiers in white bio-masks marched back and forth with their guns at their shoulders. They turned up their noses at the refugees who littered the hallways. Some of the people were still sobbing over their losses while others argued quietly amongst themselves. Most simply stared off into the distance as they meandered aimlessly about.

Even the brightest of souls felt lost in this dark place.

From the moment they had all been
rescued
, Lucas and the other “grays” had been treated more like livestock than people. They were shoved onto trucks and packed in so tightly that they were forced to stand the entire time. The ride had been hot, bumpy, and miserable. A few people had even gotten sick along the way. There was nowhere to go to escape the smell or the vile liquid that ran up and down the bed of the truck with every turn and stop.

When the refugees arrived, they were shoved from the back of the truck and separated into two lines. The men went one direction and the women and young children another. From there, they were herded into the restrooms where they were required to urinate into a small cup. As was his nature, Bo had fought the guards on this. Ultimately, his struggle did little more than delay the inevitable.

Once their “samples” had been collected and their pride effectively crushed, the groups were then escorted to the Refugee Processing Center. Aged folding tables lined with hotel-style toiletries, slippers, and stacks of muddy gray scrubs formed a perimeter around the room, each manned by soldiers in strangely colored uniforms.

“Name?”

The woman who sat behind the first table sounded bored. When Lucas didn’t answer immediately, she sighed heavily and rolled her eyes.

“Name, please?” She folded her hands on top of her clipboard and looked up at him from behind the rim of her protective white mask.

“Luca—,” he stammered. “Just Luke.”

“Wonderful.” She tapped her pen impatiently against the form in front of her. “And do you have a last name,
Just Luke
?”

Bo stepped toward him and shook his head furiously.
Don’t give them your real name
, Bo’s eyes said. Lucas squared his shoulders. He was tired of keeping that part of him quiet. Foster kid, or not, he had family out there, and to deny his name was to deny his blood.

“Larson,” Lucas said with his head held high. “Luke Larson.”

“Wait your turn, gray,” another masked soldier shoved Bo back with the butt of his gun.

“Okay, Mr. Larsen,” she said not looking up as she scribbled on her paper. “Any dietary restrictions, allergies, or pre-existing medical conditions we need to be aware of?”

“No,” Lucas said firmly. “I am—”

“He has asthma,” Layla chimed in. Lucas hadn’t even noticed as she and Jazz made their way over from the line of women on the other side of the room. “Bo, here, is diabetic and my daughter, Jasmine, has Down’s Syndrome.”

“Seriously?” Bo glared at Layla, but she was so busy trying to wrangle Jazz she didn’t notice.

“Gray number 219, asthma, got it.” She scribbled something on the form and then turned the page.

The top of the next form was marked Camp Seco Designation- Pending Retinal Scan. There was a large empty box at the top of the page labeled
administrative notes
.

Below that was a section of fine print Lucas was sure the human eye could not discern. What had him worried were the last four, bold letter lines at the bottom of the page. Each had a checkbox next to it that spoke of finality.

Adaptive (Include Compatible Pair Match)

Draft

Drone

Extraction

Whatever that last one was, the word alone made his skin crawl. He tried to get more info, but the woman caught him snooping. She cleared her throat and narrowed her eyes at him, then tilted the clipboard back so he could no longer see the documents it held.

“Now,” she said, adjusting her mask. “Any special skills or contributions?”

“Like what?” Lucas narrowed his eyes in confusion. “I’m nine.”

“It’s on the form, kid. I have to ask,” she droned without looking up. “Examples include, but are not limited to, military combat training, medical or paramedical education, law enforcement instruction, mechanical or technical proficiency, nutritional planning or meal prep, marksmanship, hand-to-hand combat, etcetera.”

“I am really good at the claw game. Oh, and I can touch my nose with my tongue,” Lucas smirked and stuck out his tongue to demonstrate.

“Right.” The woman shielded her page, drew a mark at the very bottom, and closed it before Lucas could see. Once complete, she pulled the papers free of the clip and slid them into a plain, beige folder. At the top of it, she wrote Larson, Luke, and then dropped it onto the pile next to her. “Please remove your shoes and proceed to station two.”

As the boys made their way around the room, they were slowly stripped of everything that represented the outside world. Their clothes and shoes were confiscated and dumped into a rolling bin marked
incinerate
. They were outfitted with a set of baggy, gray scrubs and a pair of equally depressing paper-thin slip-ons.

“We look like freaking mental patients in this crap,” Bo whispered tugging at his over-sized scrub top. “And why are these guys all wearing masks. They think we have the swine flu or something?”

“Less talking, more walking, grays,” another soldier said palming the weapon at his hip.

From there, each of them had their blood drawn and a metal cuff snapped around their wrist. The metal, which was engraved with an eight-digit string of numbers and letters, was uncomfortably tight against his skin. Unfortunately, according to the man who had clamped it in place after he registered, they were also not removable.

“What is this for, anyway?” Lucas had asked the man at the next station. “It’s hurting my arm.”

“Don’t worry about it.” The soldier handed Lucas his bag of toiletries and shoved him down the line. “Next!”

There were at least a couple of hundred people at the refugee camp, some of whom had been brought in from as far away as Wisconsin and Iowa. Lucas and his foster siblings represented three of the seven children who currently resided at Camp Seco. The rest of the refugees they had seen at processing had been adults, but none, Lucas suddenly realized, had been particularly old.

Had the elderly lost their lives during Icarus? Was that even possible, or had the soldiers simply left them behind to fend for themselves? Lucas shuttered at the thought and pressed on.

Jazz caught up and stayed close at his heel. Bo kept watch behind them to make sure no one had followed. He needn’t have worried. As was so often the case with children, their presence had gone completely unnoticed. The kids cleared the corridor that housed the bunkrooms and found themselves at the entrance to the main lobby.

Lucas held a finger to his lips and poked his head around the corner. Three soldiers stood around a folding table behind the large laminated counter top area that had once been the receptionist desk. They were all so busy posturing and complaining that none of them noticed when the children crept past them along the front of the desk. As soon as their backs were turned, the kids crept quickly across the open space and into the corridor that led to the ladies locker room.

“If this keeps up, we are going to need more supplies,” the youngest soldier said, and Lucas stopped in his tracks.

“What we need is fewer diseased parasites,” groaned another, as he crept to back to the end of the hall. “They grays have us outnumbered two to one, now.”

“What are you doing?” Bo hissed at Lucas.

“Getting answers,” Lucas pressed his finger to his lips then crouched down to listen.

“Jesus, Deckland,” the young man narrowed his eyes. “Those are people in there.”

“It’s not that simple anymore, Faber,” Deckland shook his head. “You know as well as I do that anyone outside the clean zone is carrying the virus. I, for one, am not interested in becoming one of those
freaks
. I doubt Weaver does either.”

“Lower your voices,” a third man grunted, rubbing his hand down his tired face. “Look, Faber, I don’t like Deckland’s attitude any more than you do, but he has a point. Seco’s ambulatory operating capacity was never meant to exceed seventy-five. We bypassed that two trucks ago and we are still waiting on Delta Crew to dock in.”

“What about the I.C.T, Sir?” Deckland added. “What’s the latest?”

“Nothing good,” the tired man sighed. “They were sweeping the asset site fifty clicks out when they ran into some hostiles. Unfortunately, Corporal Metz had already taken it upon himself to redeploy the bulk of his unit to the secondary site, so he was shorthanded and unprepared for the attack.”

“Damn,” Deckland whistled and shook his head.

“Did they make it out all right, Sir?” Faber asked.

“For the most part,” Weaver nodded, “but they blew the charges at MCH, destroying most of the doc’s samples and equipment. Plus, now we are down a deuce, a generator, and half of the grays escaped. As if the whole mission wasn’t enough of a soup-sandwich already, the hostiles burned James’ house to the ground. Most, if not all, of our actionable intel went with it.”